Gerry Underleaf

Gerry Underleaf was born in the marsh-shadowed backstreets of Sarheenia, the third son of a family known for distilling “swamp whiskey” and never paying full price for anything. He grew up with a silver tongue, quick fingers, and a bottomless pocket for secrets. By sixteen, he had stowed away on a spice barque, bluffed his way into crewing, and discovered his natural talent for piloting rivercraft—especially through waters others feared.   After a particularly dicey run through a flooded canal filled with brine leeches and half-sunk corpses, Gerry earned his Riverman’s Mark and moved on to bigger contracts. He eventually made his way to Seabridge, where the strange rhythms of the Sinking Lands proved too tempting to resist. Most who ply those waters do so once. Gerry’s done it dozens of times, each with a grin, a hidden knife, and at least one unspoken deal riding in the hold.   Gerry has a twinkle in his eye that says “trust me” and a smile that suggests you probably shouldn’t. Though affable, he’s no fool—his rates shift based on your manners, your desperation, and whether he smells coin in your cloak lining. He’s built a reputation on getting clients safely across the flooded routes of the Sinking Lands, though he never promises what’s waiting at the other shore.   His barge, The Quiet Wake, is patched together with charm and cunning—just seaworthy enough to float, just rickety enough to lower expectations. And while no one’s caught him red-handed, most folk agree that Gerry knows more than he lets on—about tides, timing, and things that crawl beneath the reed-choked waters.